The Last Eliminator
by forbrighterdays
Summary: AU. Life is a game. It’s a matter of choice. It’s a matter of chance. It will never be the same. NB
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Last Eliminator  
**Chapter: **One/?  
**Authors:** Fatimah (troubledwritingsx) & Jordan (forbrighterdays)  
**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything.  
**Rating: **T  
**Ship(s): **Nate/Blair  
**Words:** 2,833  
**Summary: **AU. Life is a game. It's a matter of choice. It's a matter of chance. It will never be the same. NB

_These violet delights have violent ends  
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder.  
Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest homey  
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness  
And in the taste confounds the appetite.  
Therefore love moderately: long love doth so:  
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.  
_

_- Friar Lawrence _

–

Twenty-seven year old Blair Waldorf is a killer.

She blames all these years that have passed and all these opportunities she has missed – everything Blair has turned down fashions her into the machine she is.

Blair remembers her childhood and everyone she has looked up to calling her _sweetheart_ and _angel_ and failing to look at her as just _Blair_. Her insides jump whenever the thought comes to her that their angel has fallen – she's fallen real hard – with her wings broken and feathers scattered and maybe this is why she doesn't know who or what she is now. Or what she can be.

Her lipstick is too red and she drinks too much and speaks like a bitch; sometimes she dresses like a slut just to kill like a psychotic killer who plans her every move weeks ahead of time. It scares Blair just how good she is, but at the same time comforts her because she's aware that she's one of the best.

Perhaps everything will be okay in a few years and somehow Blair will be able to find her fix and get herself our of the web she's tangled in.

Or maybe she will not. The more she thinks about it, the more it gives her a headache and forces her to upchuck into the nearest toilet.

She's perfect, and then she's not and she's no where near figuring out how to be filled and whole again.

–

Blair sits on the bar stool to the far right of the bar door at the _Plaza Hotel_ as far away from the rest of the revelers she she can.

She has a job to do, so naturally, this isn't the time for fun and games, and although there are plenty of men checking her out and nodding appreciatively when she happens to glance their way, she only has eyes for one man, and he has yet to arrive.

Marco Fullman was known to frequent this bar since one of his good friend's owned the building. Marco visits every night, sitting in the same spot and hitting on the same bartender. He always orders three scotch whiskey's on the rocks in quick succession, but he always fails to finish the third. All the bar regulars know of him, but not exactly who he is, or what he does for that matter – just like her. He keeps to himself, and in doing so, Marco is the biggest treat to all the ladies.

Blair has done all her research on him, using every possible channel of information that she could find on her shady friend.

At first she wonders what exactly her new targets have done to anger her clients enough to get be killed, but she never asks, and over time she stopped questioning it, because knowing doesn't get Blair anywhere and it surely doesn't help to make any of her assignments' last moments easier to face.

Not that she hesitates, because Blair has been in this business far too long to begin thinking of regrets, but the trivial reason why someone would want to kill another person is boring knowledge for Blair to be so set on learning. When she first started this risky business, the thought of having to kill someone without reason outraged her, but at this point, she's been doing it so long that it really doesn't matter.

A job's just a job, no matter the crime; if she doesn't do it, someone else will.

Tonight she's playing the role of a high-class call girl named Ivy – _oh Lord_ she loves picking these names and dressing in tight, thin, skimpy clothing. Truthfully, it's always her favorite part of every mission.

Blair wonders if she'd be an actress if she wasn't already a contract killer.

Working slowly on her first vodka and tonic she shrugs off the idea as she casually checks the door and the empty seat every so often. After glancing the Tiffany watch on her wrist for the second time in five minutes, she decides it's time for a break from the surveillance and heads into the ladies room to retouch her makeup.

Once inside, Blair opens her purse, reaches past her Jericho 941, and takes out her foundation and lipstick. Swiftly, she fixes her shiny nose and evens the color on her rosy lips like she has a million times before and leaves the washroom with no disturbances and the target _finally_ in sight.

Perking up a little, she walks over to Marco purposely adding a little swing to her hips as she takes a seat next to him against the bar, immediately grabbing his attention.

Silently counting to three she flushes a wide smile and turns to him, watching the man from underneath the canopy of her lashes.

"Hi there."

Marco nervously clears his throat. "Hi."

"My name's _Ivy_," says Blair, leaning in his direction.

The intoxication of her heavy perfume will surely do wonderful things to his blond head.

"Nice to meet you Ivy, I'm Marco," he replies as his eyes stare greedily at her smooth legs. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Sure," she answers, biting the corner of her lower lip seductively.

And just like that the hard part is done.

Hook. Line._ And Sinker._

–

He usually shoots with precision and accuracy, but it never fails to bring a smile on Nate Archibald's face when he sees how uncanny he handles himself in situations such as these. When he's acted a little too slow and his victims' eyes widen with realization to who he is and what he's to do.

Nate knows his job would be a lot less messy if he sits down and writes it on paper, but where's the fun in that?

As if what he does can be considered as child's play.

Nate Archibald is a risk taker, he always has been, which is exactly makes this particular career path that he has chosen so perfect for him. He gets paid to be a spontaneous bitch that kills others who have pissed his employers off in an irrevocable way.

Exclusive parties and elite circles are his scene, this is where he networks and finds extraordinarily wealthy people with a murderous agenda to help out.

This is also where Nate has the most fun in his life because there's no other place he's really ever been.

Being who he is and doing what he does doesn't allow for any kind of life of relaxation. He gets paid, and then he does whatever the hell he wants with the unfortunate victims. There is no room for anything but motivation in his mind, but these parties, where hundreds of rich and beautiful women are found looking for a chance at love, are where he gets to relax.

His quick thinking (which has only failed him a few times), fast reflexes, and devastating good looks are the key to his survival and success in this business. He is the obscured version of an All-American boy, but he can blend into virtually any environment without triggering alarm;  
at least until he gets his job done.

–

The unlucky soul of the night is a woman by the name of Marcy Grey.

Nate has never heard anything about her in his entire life, but when he asks his client 'why her?' the man says that she cheated him out of a lot of money, and Nate doesn't push the topic any further.

He arrives at _Plaza_ twenty minutes before he had asked her to meet him at the bar so that he can scope out the place and get a feel for his surroundings. When he does get down to business, he's very quick, but he hates being in a place he's not familiar with.

It just makes him feel awkward and out of his element – something he's not used to being subjected to.

While sitting at his table and incautiously sipping his Jack and Coke, he spots a beautiful brunette at the bar. Nate's not quite so sure what she is wearing but it closely resembles a classic little black dress cut a little too much from the bottom.

Everything about this woman screams _call girl_, but her demeanor says anything but.

The brunette doesn't notice Nate, but he continues to watch her as she checks her watch multiple times and looks repeatedly at the door. She's waiting for someone, and he hasn't got a clue as to who in the world would stand a girl like her up.

She is tired and her mind is entirely elsewhere, he notes, as she makes her way over to the ladies' room. And as soon as the door closes behind her, he puts his mind back on the task at hand and tucks the few moments of observing her in the back of his memory.

The door to the bar opens and in walks Marcy Grey. She's gorgeous, but he already knows that

It's a shame Roscoe Owen, his oldest and most trustworthy employer, wants to do away with her, but he's given Nate a hefty payment, and Nate will be damned if he screws that up over a pretty girl.

This job – the money and the authority – it gives him strength that no woman has and one that no woman can ever give him.

"Marcy, hey sweetheart," he greets her as she walks towards him on her towering high heels.

"Hi, Nate," coos Marcy, kissing his cheek briskly before taking a seat across from him. She's wearing such a low cut top that he can just about see her stomach if he leans far enough.

This will be easier than taking candy from a baby.

He smiles a little at her when she begins recalling how happy she was when Nate had called and said they should meet up after _conveniently_ meeting at a terrace party.

Of course, he had set that up as well because she had been a little stubborn at first, and at the party she had been surrounded by people the whole time.

"You know, as much fun it is to sit here and have drinks with such a beautiful woman, you know what's even more fun?" asks Nate, his fingers crawling up her forearm and over her shoulder. One can say he's not a very patient man, plus, now that his boyish charm have kicked in, he knows there is no way she can resist him.

"What's that?" Marcy giggles, showing off a perfect row of decadently bleached teeth.

Nate loves that his looks take him places most men can only dream of.

"I have a room," he whispers seductively, pulling out a key card from his suit pocket.

It's to a suite upstairs, and although he won't be staying there tonight and it's not on his dime, it's a redundant but brilliant idea because it's a hell of a lot more private.

"Something tells me you're not a very talkative guy," she winks teasingly.

"No, sometimes I am. I talked to you the whole night at that party, but how about we get you a drink so we can go up and enjoy each other more thoroughly," he suggests, a slightly mischievous tone finds itself in his speech.

"I'd like that," she flirts, obviously getting the correct idea as any sane woman would. Marcy quickly flags a server and orders two Manhattans. "We're gonna have a lot of fun tonight."

Nate nods, "you have no idea."

–

It's not very difficult for Nate to slip the arsenic into her drink. He picks the drug because it's easy and more importantly fast. It's often his killer of choice while he's in places close to the public such as hotels.

She's very oblivious, but, then again, you normally don't think the worst of a gorgeous man who gets hotel rooms 'just because' so, once again, Nate sees he has the upper hand.

No surprise because everyone he meets have no idea what hit them when he's through.

As soon as Marcy sets her drink down on the side table in the room, Nate goes for the kill, so to speak. He has had the vile in his dress shirt sleeve all night and, as always, it feels liberating to see the metallic gray substance dissolve rapidly in her glass.

"So, what do you want to do first?" She asks as she swoops in to pick up her drink before taking a casual swig.

"Oh, nothing really," he answers slowly, watching her face contort and her body convulse as she erratically sinks to the floor.

It looks bad, but he knows it's not as painful as, say, a gun shot to the head. But then again, that happens instantly.

Well, at least she's not screaming or begging for mercy because that _really_ ticks him off, mainly because part of him wants to stop though the better of him never does.

The concentration of it, mixed with other drugs that Nate uses for the task, make her death sickeningly quick. She's out in less than five minutes, which immediately leaves Nate alone in a hotel room with a dead corpse.

He runs his hand through his rich golden-brown hair and pulls out his phone, dialing the number of his cleanup guy.

"Ken, hey," he address the man on the other end of the line.

"You done already?" Ken laughs in a deep baritone.

Nate laughs as well. It isn't really a joking matter, and you definitely shouldn't laugh about a dead body that needs dispatching, but over the years it's become somewhat of a light topic.

"No shit," Nate amends as he toes the maroon hotel room carpet with his shoe.

"I don't know how you do it man, half the agents would love to be as smooth as the cunning Nathaniel Archibald."

"Well I'd be even more of a success story if I could get the damn body out myself instead of calling you."

"Hey, hey," his cleaner backtracks, "if you could do everything I'd be out of a job. We should just keep it like this, it seems to work."

"You know I wouldn't have it any other way," replies Nate, "so I'm at the Plaza, we're in a suite on the twentieth floor."

"The usual?"

"No, a few rooms down. Someone's in that room tonight."

"Okay, well I'll take care of it. What time are you gonna be out of there?"

"Uh," Nate checks his watch, "I'd say about ten to fifteen minutes? I just want to make sure the arsenic did the job."

"It's never failed before."

"I know it probably doesn't seem like it, but I do try to be careful... sometimes."

There's a long pause before both men burst into laughter.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, are you coming in?" questions Ken.

Nate yawns, "what else would I do?"

"Right, okay, see you then."

He shoves the phone back into his side pocket and closes the blinds so Ken can get straight to work when he arrives.

"Goodbye, Marcy," Nate murmurs without sparing a glance as he leaves and slips back into the Manhattan nightlife unscathed.

–

_They aren't bad people, really, they're not. This is a job, just like the ones everyone else has. It's a job filled with adventure and high stakes and even higher profits, and in the end, it's what they love to do. It's a sadistic thought, but they're not sadistic criminals._

_There is nothing wrong with curing the world of the malicious people they mostly deal with getting rid of, and even though that statement could be turned around back on them, they're too smart to think like that._

_They use their natural talents and abilities to make a living and do a job for those who can't, it's the exact same thing as being a doctor, except the outcome is opposite._

_One man is gone every few months and a few days after their death it's last week's headline. But __they're __not bitter or guilty or sad because even after all the reasons they should be, they know that they can't really miss something that wasn't theirs._


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Last Eliminator  
Chapter: Two  
Authors: Jordan & Fatimah  
Disclaimer: We don't own anything.  
Rating: T  
Ship(s): Nate/Blair  
Summary: AU. Life is a game. It's a matter of choice. It's a matter of  
chance. It will never be the same. NB

-

It's one of the many social events of the year on the Upper East Side, and among those invited are none other than Blair Waldorf and Nate Archibald.

A few feet away a small cluster of young women are giggling in his direction, scanning him up and down in his new Armani suit.

Nate hopes that he will not get any blood on it because he intends to take one of these ladies home after the party.

He observes the crowd carefully, looking for the latest Upper East Side socialite who will get the pleasure of meeting the end of his gun barrel tonight. Realizing that his target is nowhere to be found he curses himself and prays that next time he'll arrive sooner.

It can't hurt to be a little prepared once in a while, and maybe even remember his assignment's name.

Well, at least Nate Archibald never forgets a face.

He turns around and drums his hands on the counter. He waits for the bartender to come over and take his order, Nate suddenly sees his victim impatiently heading up the stairs far across from the floor with his arm wrapped around a woman's waist.

He ignores his rational side that urges him to follow them. Instead Nate decides to let the poor guy have his fun.

It will be his last lay anyway.

Heaving an awfully loud sigh, he winks at the cute redhead sitting beside him and continues to wait.

-

Blair is so used to having her male targets grope her that she can't remember the last time she's been turned on.

Once she and Davis reach the top landing of the apartment Blair rushes to push him further down the great hall, and into a dark room away from the people and music downstairs.

She inwardly cringes when she's flung onto the canopy bed, but remains composed for her sake because this is no time for a screw up.

There's never a time for a screw up in her job. One mistake and it's all over. For her anyway.

Davis' hands wander behind her and hastily unzip her dress while his lips roughly attack her neck. Blair stifles a disgusted scream because god, she really hates this part. She has not given this man her fake name yet and already he's halfway done getting her out of her clothes.

Using all the strength she can muster, Blair digs one of her stiletto heels into his shin and pushes him over before his hands can begin trailing her legs.

"Is that how you want to play?" Davis growls from underneath her.

Blair rolls her head to the side, realizing that the pain she has inflicted on his leg has strangely made him hornier.

"I'm not playing," she whispers, reaching underneath the hem of her dress and dislodging her gun from its strap around her thigh.

Blair doesn't wait for the imminent fear to cross Davis' eyes as she forces the barrel into his chest and squeezes the trigger in one fluid motion.

Game over.

For intimate operations such as this one, she isn't able to bring her silencer with her. Therefore, Blair waits a moment after the sudden sound explosion stops bouncing off the walls to make certain she can still hear the party from under the bedroom continuing.

She checks Davis' pulse to be sure that he is dead. Satisfied, Blair slides off the bed, zips up her dress, replaces her gun, and checks herself for any sight of blood before she leaves the room without a second glance.

-

Nate pinches the bridge of his nose with vexation.

He is convinced that his target and the other woman are playing monopoly because having sex doesn't take this long.

"So, what do you do?"

The redhead has decided to engage in conversation with him and as much as Nate enjoys gaining attention from such an attractive woman, he knows he has to complete his job and his head gnaws at him to get started.

"I'm an accountant." Nate replies nonchalantly, taking another sip of his drink. "And actually," he looks down at his watch, "I have to get going."

He throws a twenty down on the table and doesn't look back. The redhead murmurs profanities at him, but he doesn't pay her any mind as he quickly takes off in the direction of the staircase his target had gone up much too long ago.

On his way up the staircase, he locks eyes with an exceptionally beautiful brunette, one whom he recognizes from somewhere, at sometime, but she turns her head and runs down to the party before he gets a chance to say anything.

His soon to be victim was previously bugged by an accidental bump of the shoulder, so Nate tunes into his ear piece and waits for the coast to be clear. And before he knows it, and he's on his way to his destination.

The son of a bitch is on the eighth floor, so Nate jumps into the elevator and presses the button, tapping his feet impatiently while the elevator music and machinery carry him up.

His ear piece goes off, a continuous screeching mantra, outside room 8016, and he pulls out the universal room key to let himself in.

The sight he's met with isn't one that he's ever seen before, and it fills him with desperation. His target lays, face down on the hotel bed, in a growing pool of blood. There's no doubting what has happened in this room, and his employers aren't the forgiving type. He should have been keeping a closer watch on his man, there shouldn't have been an opportunity for him to enjoy his night, that wasn't part of his job description; offering clemency to a man when it wasn't his right to give it.

He leaves the room in a flurry; something sour and morbid climbs up his throat and threatens to overtake him. He rushes out to the elevator, neglecting to share this vital piece of information with anyone on the inside. If anyone at the agency were to find out that he had failed in one of the most simple tasks of the job, the retribution, he would be such a dead man. He just hoped to god that no one ever would.


End file.
